Forgiveness

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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She had been brought up in one of those families who live entirely tothemselves, apart from all the rest of the world. Such families knownothing of political events, although they are discussed at table; forchanges in the Government take place at such a distance from them thatthey are spoken of as one speaks of a historical event, such as the deathof Louis XVI or the landing of Napoleon.Customs are modified in course of time, fashions succeed one another, butsuch variations are taken no account of in the placid family circle wheretraditional usages prevail year after year. And if some scandalousepisode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable story diesa natural death when it reaches the threshold of the house. The fatherand mother may, perhaps, exchange a few words on the subject when alonetogether some evening, but they speak in hushed tones--for even wallshave ears. The father says, with bated breath:"You've heard of that terrible affair in the Rivoil family?"And the mother answers:"Who would have dreamed of such a thing? It's dreadful."The children suspected nothing, and arrive in their turn at years ofdiscretion with eyes and mind blindfolded, ignorant of the real side oflife, not knowing that people do not think as they speak, and do notspeak as they act; or aware that they should live at war, or at allevents, in a state of armed peace, with the rest of mankind; notsuspecting the fact that the simple are always deceived, the sincere madesport of, the good maltreated.Some go on till the day of their death in this blind probity and loyaltyand honor, so pure-minded that nothing can open their eyes.Others, undeceived, but without fully understanding, make mistakes, aredismayed, and become desperate, believing themselves the playthings of acruel fate, the wretched victims of adverse circumstances, andexceptionally wicked men.The Savignols married their daughter Bertha at the age of eighteen. Shewedded a young Parisian, George Baron by name, who had dealings on theStock Exchange. He was handsome, well-mannered, and apparently all thatcould be desired. But in the depths of his heart he somewhat despisedhis old-fashioned parents-in-law, whom he spoke of among his intimates as"my dear old fossils."He belonged to a good family, and the girl was rich. They settled downin Paris.She became one of those provincial Parisians whose name is legion. Sheremained in complete ignorance of the great city, of its social side, itspleasures and its customs--just as she remained ignorant also of life,its perfidy and its mysteries.Devoted to her house, she knew scarcely anything beyond her own street;and when she ventured into another part of Paris it seemed to her thatshe had accomplished a long and arduous journey into some unknown,unexplored city. She would then say to her husband in the evening:"I have been through the boulevards to-day."Two or three times a year her husband took her to the theatre. Thesewere events the remembrance of which never grew dim; they providedsubjects of conversation for long afterward.Sometimes three months afterward she would suddenly burst into laughter,and exclaim:"Do you remember that actor dressed up as a general, who crowed like acock?"Her friends were limited to two families related to her own. She spokeof them as "the Martinets" and "the Michelins."Her husband lived as he pleased, coming home when it suited him--sometimes not until dawn--alleging business, but not putting himself outovermuch to account for his movements, well aware that no suspicion wouldever enter his wife's guileless soul.But one morning she received an anonymous letter.She was thunderstruck--too simple-minded to understand the infamy ofunsigned information and to despise the letter, the writer of whichdeclared himself inspired by interest in her happiness, hatred of evil,and love of truth.This missive told her that her husband had had for two years past, asweetheart, a young widow named Madame Rosset, with whom he spent all hisevenings.Bertha knew neither how to dissemble her grief nor how to spy on herhusband. When he came in for lunch she threw the letter down before him,burst into tears, and fled to her room.He had time to take in the situation and to prepare his reply. Heknocked at his wife's door. She opened it at once, but dared not look athim. He smiled, sat down, drew her to his knee, and in a tone of lightraillery began:"My dear child, as a matter of fact, I have a friend named Madame Rosset,whom I have known for the last ten years, and of whom I have a very highopinion. I may add that I know scores of other people whose names I havenever mentioned to you, seeing that you do not care for society, or freshacquaintances, or functions of any sort. But, to make short work of suchvile accusations as this, I want you to put on your things after lunch,and we'll go together and call on this lady, who will very soon become afriend of yours, too, I am quite sure."She embraced her husband warmly, and, moved by that feminine spirit ofcuriosity which will not be lulled once it is aroused, consented to goand see this unknown widow, of whom she was, in spite of everything, justthe least bit jealous. She felt instinctively that to know a danger isto be already armed against it.She entered a small, tastefully furnished flat on the fourth floor of anattractive house. After waiting five minutes in a drawing-room renderedsomewhat dark by its many curtains and hangings, a door opened, and avery dark, short, rather plump young woman appeared, surprised andsmiling.George introduced them:"My wife--Madame Julie Rosset."The young widow uttered a half-suppressed cry of astonishment and joy,and ran forward with hands outstretched. She had not hoped, she said, tohave this pleasure, knowing that Madame Baron never saw any one, but shewas delighted to make her acquaintance. She was so fond of George (shesaid "George" in a familiar, sisterly sort of way) that, she had beenmost anxious to know his young wife and to make friends with her, too.By the end of a month the two new friends were inseparable. They saweach other every day, sometimes twice a day, and dined together everyevening, sometimes at one house, sometimes at the other. George nolonger deserted his home, no longer talked of pressing business. Headored his own fireside, he said.When, after a time, a flat in the house where Madame Rosset lived becamevacant Madame Baron hastened to take it, in order to be near her friendand spend even more time with her than hitherto.And for two whole years their friendship was without a cloud, afriendship of heart and mind--absolute, tender, devoted. Bertha couldhardly speak without bringing in Julie's name. To her Madame Rossetrepresented perfection.She was utterly happy, calm and contented.But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha hardly left her side. She spent hernights with her, distracted with grief; even her husband seemedinconsolable.One morning the doctor, after leaving the invalid's bedside, took Georgeand his wife aside, and told them that he considered Julie's conditionvery grave.As soon as he had gone the grief-stricken husband and wife sat downopposite each other and gave way to tears. That night they both sat upwith the patient. Bertha tenderly kissed her friend from time to time,while George stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes gazing steadfastly onthe invalid's face.The next day she was worse.But toward evening she declared she felt better, and insisted that herfriends should go back to their own apartment to dinner.They were sitting sadly in the dining-room, scarcely even attempting toeat, when the maid gave George a note. He opened it, turned pale asdeath, and, rising from the table, said to his wife in a constrainedvoice:"Wait for me. I must leave you a moment. I shall be back in tenminutes. Don't go away on any account."And he hurried to his room to get his hat.Bertha waited for him, a prey to fresh anxiety. But, docile ineverything, she would not go back to her friend till he returned.At length, as he did not reappear, it occurred to her to visit his roomand see if he had taken his gloves. This would show whether or not hehad had a call to make.She saw them at the first glance. Beside them lay a crumpled paper,evidently thrown down in haste.She recognized it at once as the note George had received.And a burning temptation, the first that had ever assailed her urged herto read it and discover the cause of her husband's abrupt departure. Herrebellious conscience protester' but a devouring and fearful curiosityprevailed. She seized the paper, smoothed it out, recognized thetremulous, penciled writing as Julie's, and read:"Come alone and kiss me, my poor dear. I am dying."At first she did not understand, the idea of Julie's death being heruppermost thought. But all at once the true meaning of what she readburst in a flash upon her; this penciled note threw a lurid light uponher whole existence, revealed the whole infamous truth, all the treacheryand perfidy of which she had been the victim. She understood the longyears of deceit, the way in which she had been made their puppet. Shesaw them again, sitting side by side in the evening, reading by lamplightout of the same book, glancing at each other at the end of each page.And her poor, indignant, suffering, bleeding heart was cast into thedepths of a despair which knew no bounds.Footsteps drew near; she fled, and shut herself in her own room.Presently her husband called her:"Come quickly! Madame Rosset is dying."Bertha appeared at her door, and with trembling lips replied:"Go back to her alone; she does not need me."He looked at her stupidly, dazed with grief, and repeated:"Come at once! She's dying, I tell you!"Bertha answered:"You would rather it were I."Then at last he understood, and returned alone to the dying woman'sbedside.He mourned her openly, shamelessly, indifferent to the sorrow of the wifewho no longer spoke to him, no longer looked at him; who passed her lifein solitude, hedged round with disgust, with indignant anger, and prayingnight and day to God.They still lived in the same house, however, and sat opposite each otherat table, in silence and despair.Gradually his sorrow grew less acute; but she did not forgive him.And so their life went on, hard and bitter for them both.For a whole year they remained as complete strangers to each other as ifthey had never met. Bertha nearly lost her reason.At last one morning she went out very early, and returned about eighto'clock bearing in her hands an enormous bouquet of white roses.And she sent word to her husband that she wanted to speak to him.He came-anxious and uneasy."We are going out together," she said. "Please carry these flowers; theyare too heavy for me."A carriage took them to the gate of the cemetery, where they alighted.Then, her eyes filling with tears, she said to George:"Take me to her grave."He trembled, and could not understand her motive; but he led the way,still carrying the flowers. At last he stopped before a white marbleslab, to which he pointed without a word.She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling down, placed it on thegrave. Then she offered up a silent, heartfelt prayer.Behind her stood her husband, overcome by recollections of the past.She rose, and held out her hands to him."If you wish it, we will be friends," she said.

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